


Five Months Time

by Coshledak



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Blind Character, Blind Roy Mustang, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coshledak/pseuds/Coshledak
Summary: It's been five months since Roy's left the hospital. It's been a little longer since he lost his sight. But he's getting there.(An indirect, fluffy sequel to Adjust)





	Five Months Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raisingmybanner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisingmybanner/gifts).



He wakes up from the throes of a dream to a very, very wet tongue against his mouth. Seeing as he knows that Riza would never do that, even in one of his dreams, that leaves one option.

“Okay, okay! Hayate! I’m up!” He shouts, pushing at the dog’s face. He backs off, leaving Roy to wipe his bare arm across his mouth in an attempt to wipe up the slobber. He’s not sure how successful he is, but he tries. “I thought Riza trained you not to do that…”

“I did,” calls a voice from the direction he knows to be the door. “He only does it with permission, which I gave him.”

Roy frowns at Riza. “Why?”

“I’ve got to get going and you weren’t up yet,” she says, and he can already hear her retreating away from the door. Her military boots make solid sounds on the hardwood floor, and Hayate’s paws follow after her with some eagerness. He’s betting that he’s about to get a treat for waking him up that way. Rude.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stands. With some measure of confidence—and counting his steps—he moves around the bed and out the door. Three strides down the hall, right turn, he’s in the bathroom. From there, he has to feel his way around. Their bathroom isn’t that big, though, which makes it easy. First the toilet, yawning as he takes care of the contents of his bladder, then the sink to wash his hands, brush his teeth, and wash his face.

He’s patting down his face with a towel when he hears Riza calling from somewhere near the door. “I’m heading out. I left a plate of eggs and toast on the counter. Don’t be late for your class.”

“Be safe,” he calls back. A moment later he hears the door open and close and the tell-tale signs of Hayate’s sad whines as he lays on the floor.

Five strides down the hallway and he’s in the living room area, which he migrates around by avoiding the bulk of the furniture entirely. Hand to the wall, he finds the doorway that leads into the kitchen and finds his food by running his fingertips over the counter. He moves that out to the small wooden table in the dining area first, then comes back for the mug of coffee.

He’s no sooner sat down than he feels Hayate plop his sad dog head down into his lap, because apparently moping is always better when you do it on a human.

“How are you not used to this by now?” He murmurs, but puts his hand on Hayate’s head anyway and starts to eat with his other hand. He’s gotten very good at not missing his mouth since he finally left the hospital five months ago.

Moving in with Riza had been simultaneously a long debate (mostly internal on his part) and something to be done without question. They both agreed that he was not incapable of living on his own. He would adjust, the way that he always did, to the challenges in front of him. However…it seemed like that was making the already long road far more difficult. 

You don’t have to do this alone, Riza had said that day in the hospital. To live on his own seemed like that was spitting in her eye, and he could never bring himself to do that.

Besides, he’s not sure he could have made as much progress as he has without her to back him. She’s as stern as she ever was, and the demotion from lieutenant to crutch wasn’t something she was about to accept.

She was up early for the first few months, helping him learn how to move around the apartment by counting his steps before work. Before he moved in she rearranged the apartment, making clear pathways that didn’t require complicated footwork. She got him Braille books from the library and had him read to her from them, first by spelling it out a letter at a time and then, slowly, by reading full words. An hour a night every night, and she could tell if he wasn’t practicing during the day. He’s still not up to the reading level he was at when he could see, but he’s learned how to put together words from the cells on a page.

She still keeps him in the loop on the—now, mostly finished—Ishvalan policy drafted by the military. They go out, less because they’ve ever been social people and more because she doesn’t want him wasting away in this apartment. Roy’s never been the type to sit back and do nothing, but a month ago everything suddenly caught up with him.

Wave after wave tried to drown him: his blindness, forcing him to relearn things that once came so naturally; his retirement, pulling the dream of becoming Führer permanently beyond his reach. Even the issue with the homunculus put to rest, no longer having Maes’ killer to pursue. He’d felt weak, alone, and pointless. Those were feelings he’d normally have pushed through with work, but that avenue was closed to him now, at least in any way that he was used to.

It was only afterwards, when he looked back on it from a higher point, that he realized: without Riza, he may very well have died without leaving that black pit. That thought was as scary as anything else.

He started going to the capitol after that. His retirement became something of a joke as he attended meetings about Ishvalan policy and spent several days during the week in a diplomatic post. He still does now, though he doesn’t work full time like Riza and the rest of his former squadron. He no longer resists being called “Colonel Mustang,” and realized, some time ago, that resisting his title had been yet another attempt at distancing himself. 

Losing his sight is a battle he fights to this day. Even as he accepts that it’s not coming back, it feels—it felt—like the only way to accept it was to become someone other than Colonel Roy Mustang. It’s been Riza who helped him see that he doesn’t have to become a new person.

He could have done without being called “stupid” quite so often, though.

As he finishes breakfast, he gives a torn off piece of his toast to Hayate, which seems to cheer him up, before washing his dishes and setting them into the strainer to dry. Ten steps from the kitchen to the hallway, eight steps to the bedroom, and he runs his fingers along the dresser drawers. 

He rubs his fingers along the collars of his shirts first: Blue. White. Black. He moves his fingers down over the buttons of the white ones, feeling for the smooth surfaced ones instead of the ones with stamped metal. Laying that over his arm, he goes to his pants next, finding the label and then feeling the fabrics. Black slacks.

Satisfied, he goes to the top drawer for socks and underwear, laying the outfit out on the top of the dresser before turning to make the bed. He’s already come close to death a few times in his life, but the fact that Riza would shoot a gun at a blind man for not making the bed is by far the scariest. What was more scary was that he told her that to flatter her.

He focuses on the feeling and weight of the fabric under his hands after setting the pillows aside. It doesn’t take a lot of focus to discern the sheet from the heavier blanket, though, and he tosses that on first, feeling for any ridges or creases, which he tugs free so it lays flat. Then the blanket, and he repeats the process. He fluffs the pillows idly before tossing them back on the bed, then stripping out of his pajamas and folding them, setting them on his side of the bed.

He yelps and jumps in the middle of buttoning his shirt when he feels something cold and wet press against the back of his thigh.

“Hayate! No! Dammit! Seriously?” He can hear him as he sits back, the jingling of something that’s probably his leash. That doesn’t erase the cold chill that just went up his spine. “Just sit there. I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

It takes more like four, but he turns around and kneels down to grab the leash, hooking it onto Hayate’s collar. He doesn’t hold the leash properly, though, and Hayate happily drags it behind him as he runs ahead to the door. He’s pretty sure Riza doesn’t like it when he does that, but Roy isn’t about to complain. He thinks the both of them could use breaks from her severity sometimes, even if it’s in something small like this.

Once he gets his shoes on, Hayate bumps his hand with that cold nose again, holding his leash once more. He nudges it against Roy’s palm until he takes it and stands up, feeling for his coat on the hooks near the door. He has two, both easy to discern by their fabric and their weight in his hands. He takes the lighter one and pulls it on making sure the loop for the leash is around his wrist.

Stepping out of the apartment triggers a shift in Hayate that he can practically feel in the air. Hayate sticks close to his side, enough that Roy can—and does—loop the leash around his wrist a few times to keep it taut. The wagging tail stops. He sits and waits at his heel while Roy locks the door and pockets his keys, standing again when Roy turns and keeping pace with him. 

When they get to the stairs, Roy touches the wall, trailing his hand down to the railing, and takes them one step at a time, tapping his heel against each step to make sure he’s not too far out. Hayate stands on them and waits as he moves down, until they get to the bottom floor. Riza’s apartment is on the third, but they’re getting a little bit quicker with it every week. 

The sounds of cars and people greet them both when they step outside and Hayate stops immediately, waiting for the bustle of people Roy can hear to pass, before he leads him to the right. They stay a slight distance behind the group ahead of them—it sounds like the chatter of working ladies—as they go. Roy finds his head naturally tilting down, as if that will help him to hear better. He has to correct himself to keep his head upright, to walk with purpose.

At the corner, Roy feels a faint tug on the leash as Hayate stops and he pulls his foot back from the half-step he was about to take, planting it on the sidewalk instead. Ahead of him, he can feel the faint breeze and hear the metallic sounds of a car rolling by. Another beat goes by and then there’s a second tug and they’re walking again.

The studio is about three blocks from Riza’s apartment, thankfully. They’d been lucky that it was that close, otherwise getting to it twice a week would have been a pain in the neck. Not that he thinks for a moment Riza would have let him slack anyway.

“Good morning, Colonel Mustang!”

“Good morning, Samantha.”

“How are you and Hayate doing?” She asks. He can hear her moving mats and practice dummies around on the far wall, away from the door.  
“We’re fine, thank you. And yourself?”

As they talk, he follows the wall ten steps to a set of cubbies across from the door. Taking off his shoes and jacket, he puts them into the top left cubby. When he lets go of Hayate’s leash, the dog moves a little ways away from the cubby and Roy can hear the faint clatter of his leash and the identifying tags on his collar against the hardwood floor.

Samantha goes back to his work and Roy heads to his usual spot in the room. Five steps along the wall with the cubbies, then six steps back towards the direction he came. He keeps his hands in front of him, just in case there’s a practice dummy somewhere, but sits down when he gets to his spot and starts to stretch out his legs, back, and arms.

Gradually, more people start to file in. Most of them quiet, except for when they speak up to Samantha. There’s the gentle tap of canes or the clattering leashes and tags of more dogs. Sometimes there’s neither, and Roy knows those are usually the trainers who work with Samantha, though she has a few who have said they’re blind or visually impaired as well. Graduates of her sightless self-defense class who wanted to come back and help others. Especially the ones who think they can’t because they can’t see.

Roy is not one of those ones.

Today is his last class. A two month, twice-a-week morning class to learn how to defend himself without his sight, and today he’s finishing it. Despite his focus, his drive, he can’t help but think back to his first class. To when he realized, laying on his back and looking up at nothing, that little of his previous military training would help him. It wasn’t even fair to think that he had an advantage on any of the people in the class. If anything, some of them had been blind for much longer than he had.

He goes through motions he’s learned over two months’ time, using physical contact to aim his blows or move his target to a place where he can hit them in critical areas. He keeps his focus and his calm. Today, he flips his training partner onto _her_ back.

Samantha ends the session by sitting them all down and explaining that their visual senses don’t define them. It’s a similar speech to the one she gave at the beginning and, as much as Roy is glad for the class and glad for someone like Samantha to teach him, he’s never done well with sentimental pep talks. He’d never even given them to his own squadron most of the time, instead preferring to remind them of the importance of their mission.

Once he has his shoes and his coat back on, he calls for Hayate. When Hayate gets to him, he bumps against his leg and turns, facing forward with his side pressed to Roy’s calf, and waits for him to get his leash. When Roy says he’s ready, Hayate heads back towards the door again.

They walk to the library next, which is a bit further out—another five blocks from the studio. But Hayate stays focused and the traffic of people has slowed down after the time he was in class. It’s late morning already—Samantha always gives the time before they leave—and heading into the lunch hour soon. He’s thinking about where to stop for lunch when he hears it:

“Ohhh!” The awed coo of a child. “Mommy, can I pet the dog?”

There’s a pause, then the soft, considerate musings. “Why don’t you ask, Simon?”

He can hear them approaching closer and Roy stops, mostly to avoid bumping into the child he knows will probably wander into his path unintentionally. “Mister, can I pet your dog?”

Hayate heels immediately and sits next to him when they stop. Roy uses his most understanding tone, “I’m afraid not. He’s working right now, I’m sorry.”

“Working? Your dog has a job?”

 _Most kids just say ‘okay’ or start whining._ Roy chuckles, opening his eyes a little. “Yes, well, sort of. He’s helping me get places.”

“Oh dear,” he hears the mother breathe into the air. She’s probably trying not to be obvious about it but, well, he can’t really blame her for being surprised. She probably knew it on some level, even if she couldn’t pinpoint it. A lot of adults sense without noticing it fully. “I’m so sorry. Simon—”

Roy raises his hand, keeping up his smile. “It’s fine. He’s not the first child to ask and he probably won’t be the last. I always hate to tell them no, but, well—”

“Mommy?”

“He said no, Simon,” she says, albeit gently. Roy’s glad. Some parents don’t take to it quite so well and tend to be overly stern with their children. He thinks that it’s a result of their own embarrassment rather than any fault of the child’s. 

“But how come?” Simon asks, but Roy can hear him retreating. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” she explains. “Sorry to trouble you.” He can tell by the shift in her tone that she’s talking to him now.

“No trouble.”

They part ways easily, though he can hear Simon asking more questions as they go. Children are that way most of the time.

He goes to the library before eating, though his hunger is really getting the best of him, for the ease of asking for a place to go for lunch. He knows Central very well, but he doesn’t have the whole city memorized. At least, not yet. He’s slowly learning, but learning doesn’t happen by repeating the exact same routine every day, so he needs to try new places and new things. Though, he usually does that with Riza or Havok or Falman or really anyone else from his unit.

The librarian puts the books in a bag for him, one that he can hang in the crook of his elbow, and gives him very keen instruction on how to get to a café just a little ways north from the library. He sounds like the sort of older gentleman who boasts extensively about knowing Central like the back of his hand whenever given the chance. Roy is glad for it. _Central Café_ is a very efficient name, at least.

They cross two intersections going north, as he was told, and then turn right. Before they head that direction, Roy hears a door open a little ways ahead of him to his right. 

“Excuse me.”

“Oh, yes?” It sounds like a young man. Not annoyed or in a hurry. Good.

“I’m looking for a place called _Central Café_.”

“It’s just down this way. If you look, there’s the sign.”

It’s a natural thing, really, for people to do that, but Roy still feels a slight swell in his chest and a hole in his stomach when it happens. Having to ask for help from strangers isn’t something he’s all that used to, though he’s always relied on the assistance of people he trusts. This is different.

“I should have been more specific,” he explains. “Could you give me an estimate of how far down it is? I can’t see.”

“You—oh!” There’s a glimpse of something, maybe frustrated confusion as to how it is a person _couldn’t see_ something that he’s sure is probably very obvious. But whatever it is, it melts away into the surprised ‘oh!’ that follows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice—”

Roy chuckles at that and feels some of the tension in his chest ease. “I’m flattered.”

“Would you like me to walk with you? I’m headed that way anyway.”

Roy hesitates for a moment, considering it, before nodding. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

“Uh, how should I…?”

Roy raises his hand. “I’ll just hold onto your arm.”

The stranger seems to navigate the situation, moving around him until Roy feels the press of his arm against his palm. He wraps his fingers around it loosely. They’re a few steps in when he speaks up again, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh! John. It’s nice to meet you, Mister…?”

“Roy is fine.”

“Roy, then. And your dog?”

“Black Hayate,” he says, with fond disparaging. “I didn’t name him.”

John laughs. “I think it’s a cool name, for what it’s worth.”

John wasn’t lying that the café isn’t that far down the street, but he’s still glad for the help. When they get there, John steps forward to get the door for him. Roy’s just thankful he signaled it with an “I’ve got the door” so he didn’t stumble forward when looking for one. Still, he does reach a hand out to find the doorframe.

“Thanks for your help.”

“No problem! Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

Hayate is good about leading him around furniture once they get inside. He’s half expecting someone to tell him they have a No Dogs Allowed policy but he doesn’t get one. Which either means that someone saw him come up to the door with assistance or they’ve noticed that he’s walking with his eyes closed. Either way, Hayate gets him to the counter where he feels for a stool and takes a seat.

“What can I get for you?” This sounds like an older woman, mostly by the smooth comfort of her voice. It’s a little gruff. It reminds him of Chris.

“Just water for now, thanks,” Roy says. feeling Hayate move under his stool. He’s really taken remarkably well to his training, though he’s always been a surprisingly smart dog. Not that Riza would have been able to tolerate anything less, he knows.

He can hear the woman moving around behind the counter, so he calls out. “Anything you’d recommend?”

“Somewhere else,” she says, humorously, then laughs. “But in all seriousness, we’ve got a pretty good club sandwich and the soup is broccoli cheddar.”

“That sounds great,” Roy says, listening for the heavy set of the water glass on the table. She slides it closer to him—it scrapes a little on the wooden counter— and turns to put in his order. 

The rest of the place sounds pretty quiet around him, and his server doesn’t seem like she’s particularly interested in idle chat, so he pulls up his bag and fishes out a book to start reading, moving his fingers across the page. It still takes him a few tries before he can settle into the pattern of it, but it’s coming more naturally to him with time and practice.

The smell of warmed bread and meat makes his stomach grumble with ill-content and it seems like she can’t set it near him soon enough. He sets the book aside, flat on the counter, but leans over his plate to eat. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be that messy of a sandwich and he can do it with one hand. 

“That interesting?” She asks, and he’s almost startled but he could sort of sense she hadn’t gone anywhere. Though he couldn’t tell she was looking at him and what he was doing.

“Hm?” He tries to buy some time with the not-quite-question, since his mouth is full. He has to set the remaining half of his sandwich down to pick up his water. 

She chuckles again. “The book. Is it that interesting?”

“Oh.” He finally manages to clear his throat with the water. “Only a little. Mostly practice.”

“Practice?”

He smiles a little, almost amused. “Well, I only lost my sight about five months ago.”

Those words used to be so hard to say, but he’s getting used to how they feel on his tongue now. Like with any other thing, practice makes perfect. He’s gotten used to them. They aren’t so heavy anymore.

“I see.” She replies, but the end of the word is pinched. He’s noticed that people to that: think that they aren’t supposed to use visual words around him. He’s never really quite sure how to tell them it’s not a big deal. They are, after all, a natural part of their language. He doesn’t think they’re limited strictly by their denotations.

But she goes quiet again after that and Mustang really doesn’t mind. He’s never been one to talk and eat, really. Most of his meetings in his lifetime have been strictly meetings, not having conversations and taking tactics over tea. 

When he finishes, he rifles through his wallet, feeling the folded bills with the pad of his thumb. He does the same with the coin, making sure to leave a decent tip before he puts his hand down for Hayate.

Upon getting outside, he gives Hayate’s leash a faint tug. “Home, Black Hayate.”

Given his time to shine, Hayate immediately heads back up the street in the direction that they came from.

_“You what?”_

_“I had him trained as a guide dog,” Riza says, simply. “It was a four month training course and he took right to it. Why are you acting so surprised? You said you would rather have a guide dog than a cane.”_

_“I didn’t think you would run out and have Black Hayate trained!” He says, though he’s not even sure why he’s as shocked as he is. Maybe it’s the simplistic way that Riza said it, as if it were the simplest thing on the planet. He takes a breath and lets it out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’s your dog, Hawkeye. You shouldn’t have had to give him up for me.”_

_“I’d hardly call it ‘giving him up,’ Mustang. You’re being a little dramatic.” Her voice is deadpanned and perhaps a little bit amused at his expense. “Besides, you wouldn’t be a fit caretaker for him anyway. That’s why you’ll both be living with me from now on.”_

When they get back to the apartment, he’s already about ready for a nap. After he takes off his shoes and coat, he unfastens Hayate’s leash. He considers going to the bedroom, but he navigates himself to the couch instead, stretching out on it with a yawn. He can hear Hayate eating and drinking before he hears him trot over to settle in front of the couch with him.

Apparently, he’s not the only one who could use some rest.


End file.
